


The Contract

by ImberNox



Category: HetaOni, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: HetaOni - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 21:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13175634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImberNox/pseuds/ImberNox
Summary: set after the events of HetaOni : Japan helps Italy overcome the lingering emotions of the ordeals of the mansion"Then, that person – whoever – would see ‘Italy Veneziano’ and respond 'Who?'"





	The Contract

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amaiasa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaiasa/gifts).



> I've been in this fandom for four years now, and I think that it's appropriate for me to write a very short fic (only three full pages on Microsoft Word) that addresses an issue that is leftover from one of my favorite works in the fandom : HetaOni.
> 
> I loved the ambiguity of HetaOni's end. I think that, somehow, having the undetermined ending makes the work all the more tragic. The nations are trapped within that cycle ; there is no certainty that they will ever get free from it. However, if they did, I like to think about how they would interact following the ordeal. Knowing each other so intimately would make professional interaction as nations all the more challenging, especially for Italy. So, I wrote this to address that issue. I think that Japan is the unsung hero of HetaOni ; Italy's reaction to Japan dying in the piano room left on me the impression that Italy valued Japan more than the others. I don't think it was romantic or friendly (if that makes sense) but more of an inherent sense that 'this person has gone through all hell with me - loved and hated me - and now dying before me.' So, I wrote Japan as the character that helps Italy afterwards in a mirroring of when Japan asked Italy "Are you hurt somewhere?"

 

                They sat in an open room : the doors to the garden were pushed open, and the summer air entered the house with lazy glee. The wood of everything felt warm to the touch ; the sound of the sun floated through the air. They sat on soft cushions – their legs folded underneath their bodies – as they were on opposite sides of a small table ; an empty pot of tea was on the table, and both of the cups were empty. There was a quietude present : calm. They were dressed in lightweight yukatas with comfortable fabric and natural air.

                All that the mansion had presented – strife, pain, confusion, loss – was void from them. Left were the remnants of every memory and every emotion that had been gracelessly pulled into the light during the chaos. Each nation had departed to their homes embarrassed and awkward. As nations, they had responsibilities. As the people they had newly found within themselves, they held understanding and compassion and connection that seemed too holy enough to breach. Certain pairs had been considerably more stressed and frightened around each other with so many new emotions and thoughts between them bared both for them and for others to see.

                America and England had left separately ; it was doubtful that any nation would see either of them for some weeks. They needed time to think through the dependence and care that they had shown each other in the mansion. They needed time to lose all of the connection built between them. The summer was helpful in that. It was soothing and relaxing and zoning where the nations needed it. Whenever the sound of the bees buzzing between the flowers reached their ears, their minds became lulled into some thoughtless complacency with the world as it was. For moments, the mansion did not exist : had not ever existed.

                But, Italy still had the Bible as a scornful reminder of everything that they – together – had endured. Its red binding sat beside him on the floor : some stain of shame. Still written on its inside cover was Italy’s name. The monster was gone ; the mansion was gone. But this was here ; it gave weight to every fuzzy memory in Italy’s mind. For the rest of time by its own being, it would be preserved. In a thousand years, it would remain intact and exposing. In a million years, once Italy had ceased to exist as a nation and likely faded from memory and form, the book would exist as some riddle to whoever read its inside cover. Then, that person – whoever – would see ‘Italy Veneziano’ and respond “Who?”

                And wherever nations vanished to after their disassembly and loss of memory, Italy would feel his breath knocked from him : tossed into some body of water that invaded his lungs and made him choke. Every inch of his skin would burn, and his mind would throb. His name would echo in his head : his contract. And then, perhaps, once the pain of it all faded, he would hear in his mind the echoing call ‘Feliciano Vargas’ until he blotted out every thought towards ‘Feliciano’ and continued his lack of existence as the former Italy : vanished forever. And no other nation would endure it. Only he would be constantly dragged back from the blissful lack of existence by the horrid memory. Japan would cease to exist or remember. America would cease to exist or remember. It would be Italy’s burden alone. Sometimes, the thought of that certain fate choked Italy. Sometimes, the red of the Bible filled him with violent grief. He would scream and cry at the book. Sometimes, he would stare dully at its cover. Maybe he would beg to go back, even. But, for the moment, it rested harmlessly on the wooden floors of Japan’s home.

                “Italy,” Japan interrupted Italy’s stream of consciousness.

                Italy moved his gaze from the mesmerizing red of the Bible to Japan’s dark, reassuring eyes. They were gentle to look at. Italy realized that his hands were sweating into puddles. He had a reason to be at Japan’s so soon after the mansion. There were questions left unanswered from that place that he wanted to explore with Japan. He could not with any other.

                “What are you thinking about?” Japan questioned, his eyes straying towards the Bible : lingering as if similarly spellbound. “Are you upset by it?”

                Italy shook his head. “No,” he answered. He wiped his hands on the lower fabric of the yukata. “It will be with me forever, right?”

                “Yes. Are you bothered by it?”

                “… I am.”

                Japan nodded slowly. “Italy,” he said, “you do not have to feel like you carry this burden alone. The nations who were there remember intensely what happened. None of us will be forgetting it anytime soon, I promise.”

                “It’s not that,” Italy disagreed. “It’s when none of us exist any longer. Then, only I will be called back whenever the contract is read.”

                “It was not a contract that anyone will ever hold against you.”

                “Because I am not Feliciano Vargas anymore. I will never be Feliciano again.”

                “I think we all are our human selves somewhere deep within us.”

                Italy frowned. “We will never call each other by those names again.”

                “Perhaps not. But it’s something to know that we are them, right?”

                “But what happens?”

                “What are you talking about, Italy?”

                “In war. I cannot fight Germany if I know that he is Ludwig. I cannot fight America is I know that he is Alfred. I will never fight you knowing that you are Kiku.” Italy’s fingers were tying each other. “How could I? How could America ever fight England? Or you with China? Or Canada with France?”

                “We are nations, Italy,” Japan told him. His words were absolute, but his tone was gentle. His eyes were even softer. “For centuries, we have repressed our interactions to politics. We will continue to do so. That is alright.”

                “Is it?”

                “It is.” Japan let the air linger between them wordlessly for some minutes as they both considered it. “Open the Bible,” Japan instructed.

                Italy hesitated to touch the Bible, but he took it in his hands and pulled it into his lap. It weighed heavy there. He opened the cover, staring at the ink stained darkly there.

                “Read it.”

                Italy swallowed around the thick shame in his throat. “The contract of Italy Veneziano.”

                “So. It is immortal, Italy.”

                “I know that. But that doesn’t help me.”

                “But it does. If that is immortal, so are the memories of every nation.”

                “Japan?”

                “You put yourself through every worst pain imaginable for us. Your contract is not shameful, Italy. You cannot be blamed for what happened. It is admirable, Italy, how far you went to protect your friends.” Japan smiled at him ; it was a rare smile : soft and warm and entirely happy. “Time cannot ruin that. How many times did you kill yourself watching us die? How many times did you pick yourself up to try again? How many times did you lose faith and regain it? We will remember all your efforts for much longer than you suffered. Than you will suffer. It will not disappear from any of our minds.

If you ever find yourself on the battlefield across from me, Italy, and you find yourself losing, I will not hesitate to act as I must as a nation. But afterwards – always afterwards – I will be there to help you as a friend and as someone who has watched you suffer so intensely for me. As a human, I will be alongside you. And so will Germany. And all of the others.”

                Italy breathed in. The hands holding the Bible were shaking. “Japan?”

                “Italy.”

                “Thank you.”

 


End file.
